The Flapper's Fake Fiancé

by Lauri Robinson

  “Church,” Victoria said. “That’s the only place William lets them go.” She shrugged. “He was so worried men would snatch them up. Men after his money.” She laughed. “I swear, that man squeaks when he walks he’s so tight. His wealth is the only thing he guards more closely than his daughters.”

  * * *

  Satisfied every last lock of her hair was tightly tucked beneath her hat, Patsy turned away from the mirror. If she wasn’t so light-headed from Lane kissing her, truly kissing her, she might take a moment to admire the fine furnishings of the powder room. Everything in the room glittered like gold beneath the glow of the overhead light.

  Or maybe she was still seeing stars. Kissing Lane had been like something out of this world. She was still breathless over it. She’d been kissed before, since she’d started living two lives, but none of those other pecks could even compare to Lane’s kiss.

  Couldn’t even come close.

  No, siree.

  Lord, but that had been amazing!

  His kiss had lit up her insides like fireworks. Her heart was still beating ten times faster than it should, and just thinking about it had her insides humming and tingling, and...crazy. Pure crazy.

  She couldn’t wait to get to his side. Stand next to him. Smell his cologne. Feel the heat of his body. Have him lay a hand on the small of her back.

  She wouldn’t have left his side if her hat had stayed in place. It wasn’t likely anyone had recognized her, but if anyone was to ever recognize her or her sisters, it would be because of their hair. Everyone else in the entire world had fashionable short hair, except for her and her sisters. And Mother. Father refused to let any of them do more than trim the ends of their long tresses. That’s why they always wore hats or full headdresses that they could securely tuck their hair beneath, when they went out at night.

  She pulled open the door and stepped into the crowded hallway. The butterflies took flight in her stomach all over again. Lane was near the doorway to the room they’d danced in. He was so darb. So handsome. And could cut a rug like no other.

  She started making her way down the hallway, smiling, until someone behind him caught her attention. Her smile fell as recognition hit.

  Charlie! Could it be him? The same man who’d told her about the money.

  The money. Rex Gaynor. How had all that slipped her mind? Now that she knew more about writing, she had to...

  Her thoughts slipped back to kissing Lane. Why had he kissed her?

  Because he liked her?

  That couldn’t happen.

  She couldn’t like him, either.

  Not to the point they kissed each other.

  That would ruin everything.

  Shouldering her way along the hall, squeezing up against the wall at times to make it past neatly dressed men and women taking up more space than necessary, she kept an eye on Charlie. It was him. She was sure of it. And he was walking toward the stairs leading to the second floor behind Lane.

  Her stomach clenched. Lane was waiting for her. He had a cocktail in one hand, but she had to ask Charlie where he’d learned about the money and might not get another chance.

  She hurried past Lane and had one foot on the stairway, when a hand grabbed her arm.

  “Where are you going?” Lane asked.

  “That’s him,” she whispered, nodding toward Charlie, who was at the top of the landing talking to another man. “The man with the mustache.”

  “Him who?”

  “The man who told me about the money Rex Gaynor had stolen,” she answered quietly. “I have to ask him how he knows about it.”

  Lane’s hold on her arm tightened.

  She glanced toward him, wondering why he wouldn’t let her go, and froze at the frown on his face, the angry glare in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head and looked away. “It’s time for us to leave.”

  “It can’t be,” she said. “Not yet. I need to talk to that man. I may not get another chance.”

  “No.”

  She twisted her arm but couldn’t break his hold. “He’s right there on the landing. The one with the mustache.”

  Still frowning, Lane looked up the staircase, at the men still standing there, talking. He squinted, and was still squinting when he looked back at her. “This game you’re playing is over. We’re leaving.”

  “Game? What game?”

  He didn’t answer, just pulled her to the door, and out it, and then toward the car without saying a word.

  What had happened while she was in the powder room to make him so angry? She hadn’t been gone that long.

  Her stomach suddenly sank. Was he angry about kissing her? About how she’d kissed him back? Nothing else had happened.

  Or had it? Had he seen that Charlie, and knew that’s who she’d gotten the information about the money from and wanted to get the scoop on her? He must have.

  He’d read her writing and was now trying to get the scoop on her!

  They’d arrived at the car and he’d opened her door. Shooting him a glare as nasty as the one on his face, she climbed in and grabbed the door, slamming it shut.

  She’d thought he was different, was someone she could trust, but he wasn’t. He’d probably made up all that stuff about why he’d wanted to become a reporter just to get her to trust him, and now that he knew who her informant was...

  She squeezed her eyes shut at how they suddenly burned and breathed through her nose at the pain clenching her chest. Maybe Father was right when he said that she and her sister weren’t allowed to date because they had no idea how to spot a good man. An honest one who wouldn’t just be nice to them only because they wanted their father’s money.

  He may not know about her father’s money, but he had wanted to know where she’d gotten her information about the stolen money.

  Her insides flinched when Lane climbed in and shut his door.

  As he started the car and steered around the parked cars in front of them, she continued to breathe through her nose, promising herself that she wasn’t going to say a word. Not a single word. In fact, she was never going to talk to him again.

  Ever.

  “It’s time you told me what’s really going on here.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” she snapped, then clamped her teeth together at having already broken the oath she’d made to herself.

  “No, Patsy, I think you have more to say than I do.”

  She kept her chin up and stared out the passenger window.

  “That is your name, isn’t it? Patsy Dryer?”

  Her stomach dropped, and her hands started to shake. He had called her Patsy. Twice. No. No. No! This couldn’t be happening!

  “How long did you think you were going to get away using a name like Liberty Bell?”

  A knot formed in her stomach. That had been foolish, but he’d caught her off guard by asking about her last name yesterday. They’d been driving by a church, with a bell tower, and Bell had just shot out of her mouth. Swallowing against a fat lump filling her throat, she asked, “Who told you?”

  “Does it matter?” He huffed out a breath. “No, it doesn’t. What matters is that I won’t be duped, Patsy. Not by you or your father.”

  She went cold. “My father?”

  “No more games, Patsy.”

  “Wh—what does my father have to do with anything?”

  “He’s the one who put you up to this, pretending to want to become a reporter.”

  “No, he’s not. He doesn’t—” She pressed her lips shut. She couldn’t tell him the truth, rat out her sisters.

  “Doesn’t what?”

  She folded her arms across her chest, tucked her trembling hands beneath her arms and stared straight ahead, willing her tongue to not defy her again.

  After a short time, he said, “I’ll b
e talking to him tomorrow. Put an end to this whole sham.”

  Her heart leaped into her throat. “No! You can’t talk to my father. Please, Lane, please, please, please. He doesn’t know anything about anything.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute. Your father has been searching for husbands for his daughters, and set you on me. I’m not one of them. Won’t be one of them. I’m not marrying anyone.”

  “I’m not, either! I don’t want to get married. Not ever.”

  He shook his head.

  Tears pouring down her face burned her cheeks. “I’m telling the truth, Lane. That’s why I want to be a reporter, so I don’t have to get married. It’s the truth, I swear!”

  He turned a corner, and cold dread filled her as they rolled past the Rooster’s Nest. Her sisters were going to be so mad at her. This truly would ruin everything.

  The car rolled to a stop near the street corner. She grabbed a hold of the door handle.

  He reached over and grasped her wrist. “The streetcar won’t be here for at least half an hour.”

  She closed her eyes against the tears that continued to flow. “My father doesn’t know about us going out at night,” she said, hoping the truth would help. “We don’t want to marry the men he’s chosen for us.”

  “Chosen?”

  She nodded, although Father had mentioned only whom Betty would marry, she was certain the others would be like James Bauer. “You aren’t one of them. I swear.” Her sisters were going to be so angry. “Wh—who told you my name?”

  He released her wrist and she flinched slightly because for a moment, she thought he was going to touch her face, but then he put his hand on the car shifter. “Victoria Lloyd. She recognized you from church.”

  Patsy closed her eyes. She wouldn’t recall having seen Victoria at church, because like everywhere else, Father didn’t allow them to interact with very many people. “I’m telling the truth, Lane, I swear. My father knows nothing about this.” She pulled open the door handle. “Please believe me.”

  She leaped out of the car, shut the door and ran to the space between the buildings to wait for her sisters. Tears still ran down her cheeks. Once between the buildings, she leaned against the solid bricks as sobs shook her entire body. Her life was over.

  Over.

  What was she going to do?

  How could everything go from wonderful to awful in the blink of an eye?

  She had to think. Think of something she could do.

  Pushing off the wall, she paced between the two buildings. It hadn’t gone to disastrous yet. Her father didn’t know. Or her sisters.

  But even if Lane didn’t tell her father, Victoria Lloyd might.

  Oh, this was awful. Completely awful.

  There had to be something she could do.

  By the time Jane appeared in the opening between the buildings, Patsy had concluded that she wouldn’t tell them what had happened.

  Not yet.

  “Come on,” Jane whispered. “The trolley’s coming. Betty’s right behind me.”

  Patsy hurried out from between the buildings, and her feet stumbled over themselves at the sight of Lane’s car still parked at the curb. He was still in it, too.

  She caught her footing and ran past it, following Jane to the corner, where they climbed onto the trolley, along with Betty, who arrived right behind them.

  They took separate seats, and remained silent until after stepping off the streetcar again.

  Then Jane wanted to know about the party. Patsy tried to sound normal, happy, and told them she and Lane won the dance-off, which almost caused her to start crying again. For the first time ever, she was glad to see the tree line of their property, and the silence that came as they entered it.

  Once inside, she went straight to her room, and locked the door so Jane wouldn’t be able to come in and ask any more questions.

  She lay down on her bed, and let the tears flow. The sorrow filling her was so great, her entire being hurt, and a large part of that hurt was due to Lane, of how angry he’d been. How he’d thought she’d been lying to him.

  The kiss they’d shared had been so amazing, everything about him had been so amazing, and now all of that, all of her memories, were tarnished.

  She was still sick to her stomach and worried about what to do when it was time to get out of bed. After getting dressed in an ankle-length dull blue dress, she brushed her hair and made sure there were no traces of makeup on her face before going downstairs.

  Where things got worse when a row at breakfast, over whose turn it was to drive Mother downtown shopping, made Betty so angry she left the table without eating, and slammed her bedroom door. Betty never slammed doors, never argued with Father. He’d stormed out shortly afterward complaining about how ungrateful they all were.

  Patsy had sat silent, trembling, through the entire row, knowing if he ever learned about their flapper lives, he’d be furious. It had been Betty’s turn to drive Mother, something they usually each looked forward to. Mother had agreed that Jane could drive her, but Father had said no, that it was Betty’s turn, and Betty would be the one to go, insisting that Jane had other chores to complete.

  They always had other chores to complete. It was Father’s way of keeping them home, keeping them busy.

  Betty’s eyes were puffy and rimmed red when she left with Mother, and Jane instantly started rolling up the rugs downstairs because it was mopping day.

  Patsy went upstairs to do the same, but the minute she noticed the bathroom window was open, she knew what she had to do. She had to go see Lane.

  Chapter Eight

  Lane surveyed the property as he walked toward the house. He’d parked down the road and would keep on walking past if he saw any movement.

  The house wasn’t old, or in bad shape, except for the fact it had sat empty for almost three years. A mob boss had built it, and used it to house the operation of his liquor distribution. The bust of this place had been one of the biggest in LA by federal prohibition agents. One of the few, too. Without the support from local police, who despised having to cooperate with the agents, busts had dwindled down to nothing more than clearing out a speakeasy for a night every now and again to merely make it look like the federal law was being enforced.

  There was no real sign that anyone had been to the house on a regular basis, other than what looked like a trail that led through the side of the yard near a row of trees. It went from the gravel road behind the house all the way to the paved street in front of it.

  He left the street to take a closer look at how the grass had been trampled. At first, he’d wondered if it had been some sort of wild game, coming down from the Santa Monica Mountains across the gravel road. William Dryer didn’t own that property, mainly because it was too hilly to be developed.

  Air stuck in his lungs as Libby—no Patsy—entered his mind. He still wasn’t sure if she was serious about becoming a reporter, or if that truly had been a ruse put in place by her father, hoping to find her a rich husband. A completely sleepless night hadn’t given him any insight, either.

  He’d done some researching on the guy, Charlie, she’d pointed out last night. Turns out the man’s name was Vincent Burrows. He was fairly new to the bootlegging scene, but not to the mob. He had connections that went back to this house, and the original owners. The house was only a mile down the road from the Dryer home and that made him wonder if there was more of a connection that she hadn’t told him about.

  Lane knelt down and ran a hand over the trampled grass. Then glanced at the length of the trail again. From the gravel road, to the paved street. This wasn’t a game trail. It was a people trail.

  Odd place for one.

  He stood and walked toward the large pillared porch on the front of the boarded-up house.

  Odd, too, was the fact the front door was unlocked.

/>   Boards had been nailed over the windows from the outside, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness after stepping inside.

  Dust motes floated in the light coming in from the open door behind him, and busy spiders had spun webs between the spindles of the curved staircase leading to the second floor.

  But what he noticed most was the floor, and how the dust had been disturbed. He couldn’t make out actual footprints, but someone had been here recently. There was a clear dust-free path.

  He eased the door closed and waited another moment for his eyes to adjust to the almost complete darkness and then walked past the staircase toward the hallway and the other rooms it led to.

  The area was completely void of furniture, and even his soft footsteps echoed off the walls and high ceiling.

  Following the pathway on the floor, he made his way down the hallway and into a kitchen, again void of furniture and appliances, but hosting built-in cupboards, counters, and a sink. The only light was from small cracks between the boards nailed outside the window. Not enough light to see where the path in the dust on the floor went, but it had definitely led to this room.

  There were three doors. One obviously went outside, and was nailed shut by boards that covered the window from the outside. Of the other two, one wasn’t shut tight. He’d guess that’s where whoever had been here had gone.

  A basement.

  He stepped carefully, quietly. Someone could be down there.

  “Is anyone here?”

  His heart slammed against his rib cage and he momentarily froze, until he realized the sound of a woman’s voice had come from the front door.

  “Lane?”

  Recognizing the voice, he ground his back teeth together. He spun on one heel, rushed out of the room and into the hallway. Where he ran directly into her.

  Libby. No. Patsy.

  “What the hell—”

  “What are you doing here?” she continued.

  She’d spoken at the same time as him, only louder.

  He pressed a hand to her lips and rather than answering, whispered, “What are you doing here?” He already knew. “Looking for Burrows?”